


And the Singer Sings of Death

by stardustspirals



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, drabble I suppose, reborn!Maeglin, this is fucking sad I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustspirals/pseuds/stardustspirals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that a singer can be heard on Tol Eressëa, if you listen at just the right time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Singer Sings of Death

They say that a singer can be heard on Tol Eressëa, if you listen at just the right time, when the sun is veiled by rolling silver clouds and the waters stir. A voice, male, not particularly skilled, at times cracking or off-key. A gleam of raven hair as he sits at the edge of the water, a dark figure clad in black. And his voice carries over the water with the sorrow of one who has known Nienna. 

The song begins softly, and tells of the sweet embrace of night, swaths of stars that grace the sky. A forest that rises so high, not a single silver of sunlight can penetrate down to the floor. A forest that lives and breathes and wraps its inhabitants in the safety of its shadow. And a mother's arms, and a child.

As his voice rises, the white walls of the hidden city glimmer in the listener's mind, tall and proud, the sun blinding on their surface. The listener sees her golden hair, the fairness of her skin, bare feet on the stone, and longing. And the singer sings of death, of blood on the stones that lie below the city's walls, of a poisoned wound and a dead mother, and still, a lady dancing. 

He sings of another man, mortal, striding through the gate, fair, with golden hair. He sings of the king and his pride. He sings of his own sorrow as the stranger takes the hand of the barefoot woman. 

He sings of the pits in which he mined the stone that would be used to construct the gates of the city. He sings of the mountains, of leaving. He falters there, his voice trembles and goes silent.

He begins again. There is a sunrise, one that comes from the wrong direction. There is the rise of smoke, spiraling up from the white city, a crackle of flames, the scream of citizens, the cry of dragons. A king, trapped beneath his tower.

Gondolin falls.

The song turns to a vision of a rising star, voice tinged with bitterness and awe.

And before the son of twilight allows the last note of his song to fade, it returns, in one last verse, to the golden haired barefoot woman.


End file.
